Wednesdays
by BluishBleach
Summary: Wednesdays, Alex has therapy. It's a turning point in his life. (Post Scorpia Rising) (For the prompt "Wednesdays never fail to surprise Alex", SpyFest Fic Exchange 2016)


Alex sat silently, staring at the small fish in the bowl on the desk. It was a blue beta, and it was lazily turning circles in the water, flicking its fins and propelling itself with an almost insouciant manner.

The fish's name was Harmony, and it was about four years old. It was unmotivated and indifferent and never paid Alex any interest when he was around.

But seeing the fish was the only good thing about his weekly visits to his therapist, and as usual, Alex found that he couldn't keep his eyes off of it.

"I think this session we should take some time to visit some of your old acquaintances. Friends, teachers, neighbors… Do you have anyone in particular that you want to talk about?"

Alex ignored Ms. Funke and focused on the fish. It was floating near the top of the bowl, scarcely moving. If not for the little ripples flickering out from it, it might have been dead.

"That's alright if you don't. I'll talk and you can just listen, for now. But Alex, I would really love for some input this time. It doesn't have to be a lot, just a few words. Speaking can be very cathartic."

Ms. Funke's candy pink lips reflected off the curve of Harmony's fish bowl as she smiled at her client, but he chose not to notice. Alex hadn't spoken a word to her, last session, and he hadn't spoken a word at the session the week before that.

When he first started going to therapy at the Compassion Counseling Center, he'd been hurt and lost and somewhat insulted that Edward had thought that he needed a shrink, but Alex had tried. He'd answered Ms. Funke's questions, and he'd given her as much information as he could, but Alex had soon realized that it just wouldn't be enough.

He wasn't allowed to speak about four fifths of the things he'd gone through, and the final slice that he was allowed to speak about, he had to heavily edit so that it would be safe for civilian ears. This meant that the information Ms. Funke was getting was so heavily doctored, it was hard to even understand the true impact it had had on him. She didn't know what had really happened with Herod Sayle, she didn't know what had really happened with Damian Cray. She didn't know about Kenya or Italy or Indonesia and she didn't know about Julius or Jack.

Alex had quickly given up. What was the point of even trying to cooperate if he was never going to get better? He couldn't imagine a life without his night terrors and panic attacks and paranoia, and he couldn't imagine that Ms. Funke was ever going to be able to understand and help him at all.

After the third session, Alex had capitulated to his doubt and misery altogether, and now, on his ninth session, he was reduced to staring emptily at a fish, swimming in endless, endless circles around inside a glass cage.

But Ms. Funke had not yet given up.

"It can be very hard to move schools- even harder if you're moving to a new country," she was saying, with dogged determination. "There are new rules and new customs, and you have to find friends all over again. It's hard being the man on the outside."

She paused, but Alex didn't speak.

"It's even harder to cope with new surroundings when they directly result from a death in the family. I understand that you only moved to America because your guardian died- your housekeeper, was it? Jack?"

That got a startled flinch from Alex, and Ms. Funke set her jaw.

"Look, I know that you requested in our first session that we not talk about her, and I am prepared to honor that agreement, but to be perfectly honest with you, I don't think that our sessions are truly making much of an impact on you at all."

Alex finally looked up at her, blinking his eyes in shock. "What?"

"Alex, you're reticent. Every time you enter into my office and sit down on my couch, you enter a state of near catatonia, and I'm not sure that you're absorbing anything that I say to you at all. Now, in my opinion, this is because the topics that we're touching on are much too removed from you, personally. In our first few sessions we talked about your parents' deaths, we've talked about your illnesses, and your absences from school, but, for some reason, not a single one of those subjects managed to actually touch you. It was as if we were talking about the life of a different person. And pretty soon you shut down. You've barely said five words to me since."

The therapist ran a hand through her dark hair, tugging on the tip of her ponytail as if she were trying to pull the thoughts out of her own head. She was frustrated, and it showed on her face.

"The thing is, I don't understand. I don't understand why I haven't been able to reach you. Every client is different, and it takes longer for some, but not a single thing we've discussed has made any impact on you. At all."

"Maybe you just can't help me."

"Nobody is beyond help."

Alex let out a deep breath, shaky and wobbly, and met Ms. Funke's eyes. They were soulful and warm and Alex felt his body tense. She set him on edge- deeply, painfully on edge. It was easy to see that Laura Funke was a good person. She genuinely cared about her job, cared about her clients, and cared about the world she was living in. And Alex had not encountered such a vibrant, open soul in a very very long time.

"Ms. Funke, I appreciate how much you're trying to help me," he began quietly, slowly. "But there are… things… that you don't know. That you can't know. I've made my peace with how I am, and I am prepared to deal with my past on my own. It's how I always have, and I'm okay with that. I'm only here because Edward is insisting, and I… I can't let him down."

"You don't even try anymore." Ms. Funke stared him straight in the face. "Alex, you've quit. You've given up. If you really want to please Mr. Pleasure, you need to be honest with me so that I can help you. There's no shame in that. You don't have to do everything by yourself all the time."

"Well that's news to me," Alex snapped.

Ms. Funke's brows raised and his face flushed hot red.

"I didn't mean that."

"I think you did. And I think that maybe we should talk about that. It'll go along with our theme of the day. 'Past acquaintances.' You were raised for most of your life by your uncle, weren't you?"

"Look, there's no point in this. Can't you just agree to let this go?"

"I'm being paid weekly by your foster father," his therapist pointed out. "Surely I should at least try to do my job."

"I- Fine." Alex crossed his arms and slouched down further on the couch. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I was raised for most of my life by my uncle."

"Hmm. And he died when you were fourteen, in a car accident. That must have been pretty hard on you."

"Sure. It was a big change."

"Was it really?"

This brought Alex up short. "What do you mean, 'Was it really?' My primary caregiver died. That'd be a pretty big change for anyone."

"Yes, in a lot of ways, I do agree. However, just now you said that it was 'news to you that you didn't have to do everything by yourself.' I'd like to discuss with you what a primary caregiver means."

Alex frowned. "Alright."

Ms. Funke pulled open the top drawer on her desk and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. She slid them across the table to Alex.

"I'd like for you to make me a list of 10 things your uncle did to care for you."

He hesitated for a moment, and then picked up the pen. "Fine."

The two sat in silence for a moment as Alex scrawled down his list, stopping every beat or so to briefly consider. He finished quickly and thrust the pad back to her. "Here."

Ms. Funke picked up the paper and carefully analyzed his list, and the way her lips pursed as she read it made Alex involuntarily tense. "So?"

She set down the pad and stroked her chin thoughtfully. "I can't say that these aren't things that caregivers are supposed to do."

Alex felt himself relax. He checked his watch, not even bothering for subtlety. "So are we finished for today?"

"Almost. I'd like to make something for you really quickly, and then you can go."

"Make something for me?"

She didn't respond, just tore of the top paper from the pad, and picked up the pen. Alex watched, brows furrowed, as she neatly printed words onto the paper. When she was finished, she tore it from the pad, stacked it neatly onto the paper that Alex had written on, and handed both to the boy.

He stared down at it. "What's this, then?"

"That's my list. Of what I think a caregiver should be. I'd like for you to take both of these home with you tonight, and look them over. I want you to take the week and think about the differences in our lists, and maybe jot down any thoughts you have about them."

"Fine." He stuffed the papers into his jacket pocket and rose. "Goodbye Ms. Funke."

"Goodbye Alex. I'll see you next Wednesday."

* * *

That night Alex stared down at the two crumpled papers laid out in front of him. He was deeply unnerved, and he hated himself for the feeling.

Alex's list consisted of this:

1.) Provided shelter

2.) Provided food

3.) Provided an education

4.) Taught me new things

5.) Took me to new places

6.) Treated me with respect

7.) Expected the best from me

8.) Taught me to be self-sufficient

9.) Did not treat me as if I were an ignorant child

10.) Gave me opportunities for character growth

Ms. Funke's list consisted of this:

1.) Should love you and tell you that he loves you

2.) Should protect you from harm

3.) Should give you hugs, daily

4.) Should be there for you on Christmases and Birthdays

5.) Should give you help with homework

6.) Should take care of you and not give too much responsibility (you are a child!)

7.) Should give you advice about life

8.) Should know what you like and don't like

9.) Should play games with you

10.) Should spend time together doing fun things

Ian had been a good uncle. There was no denying it. He loved Alex and did the best he could to raise him into a smart, independent human being, and Alex would never forget all that his uncle had done for him.

But as much as he was loathe to admit it, Ian had been far from perfect, and, skimming down Ms. Funke's list, a pit opened in the bottom of his stomach as he realized just how much had been lacking from their relationship.

Sure, not every point was in contest- Ian had, after all, tried his hardest to be there for special occasions, and he had helped Alex with his homework whenever he could. He'd given Alex countless lessons about life, he had known more about Alex than Alex had known about himself, and Alex had always enjoyed the skiing and hiking and sightseeing trips they'd gone on.

But he wasn't a very open and Alex could count on one hand the times Ian had told him that he loved him. His feelings weren't in doubt though- Alex knew that Ian had cared for him very deeply, despite the man's reserved nature and deeply poor judgement. Ian just… wasn't one to talk about his feelings, was all. It was a Rider trait.

This passed over to hugs as well. Alex got pats on the back and firm clasps on the shoulder, but Ian had never really hugged him, not really. It wasn't a big deal and Alex hadn't really ever thought about it before, but seeing that point on Ms. Funke's list made his heart ache in ways that it never had before.

But the main point that hurt Alex more than any other was the 'protect him from harm' bit. Because Alex had been shot. And he'd been burned and stabbed and his skin had been torn apart by rocks and barbed wire and broken gas and gasoline. His body was painted in scars, slashed across his skin in a grisly Jackson Pollock. The only thing that hurt worse than the residual ache in his bones was the ever-present fire burning in his mind.

Sometimes it was a hot fire, scorching through his nerve endings, incinerating every thought and feeling and emotion and leaving only ashes behind. But more often it was a cold fire. It seared him so deeply and harshly that it left him numb and frozen. His head was a block of ice and he was in hell, a Narnia-like place full of flames so hot and biting they felt like frost-bite. He couldn't think and he couldn't move and everything was just an anaesthetic dream.

Everyone he had ever loved, everyone who had ever loved him, was dead. His mother. His father. His uncle. Jack. He had no one. And it was all because of one organization. Two letters. One number.

MI6.

They had ruined his life. They had stolen everyone from him, they had stolen everything- his innocence, his hope, his dreams, his safety, his peace of mind.

But the thing was, Ian had set it all up. Not on purpose, of course (or at least, he didn't think so), but it was because of Ian's actions nonetheless. He'd taken Alex snowboarding. He'd taken him skiing and rock-climbing and parasailing. Alex spoke Spanish and German and French and Italian and Japanese. He could fight, Ian had made sure of that. Ian had also made sure that Alex knew how to survive and thrive.

And Alex had been taken advantage of. He hadn't been protected. He'd had too much responsibility and too much weight hefted onto his shoulders, and Blunt and Jones had snatched him up like a wolf snatches up a lost child.

The thoughts were getting too heavy and there was a bitter feeling swelling up in his chest.

Alex dashed a hand across the papers in front of him, scattering them to the floor. He got up from his desk and left his room. He went down to the kitchen and sat down at the table across from Edward, who was reading the morning paper.

For a moment, it was silent, but for the ticking of the clock propped up next to the refrigerator. Elizabeth Pleasure was out shopping, and Sabina with her friends.

"I don't know what to do," said Alex finally, voice smaller than he could ever remember it.

Edward put down his newspaper. "About what?"

Alex shrugged. His eyes were glued to the marked tabletop in front of him. He fingered a nick in the wood. "Nothing's going right, Edward. I don't think I can go on anymore."

Edward didn't answer, just stared at his foster son with troubled eyes. He waited.

"I'm sad all the time. But it's a numb kind of sadness. And when I'm not numb, I'm mad, and moving hurts and thinking hurts and I don't think I can go on feeling like this anymore."

"Have you told this to Ms. Funke?"

"No. What's the point? She can't help me."

"You don't know that," said Edward gently. "If you haven't talked to her, how can you know that she can't help you? I've heard very good things about her. She's good at her job. She's passionate about helping. If anyone could, it would be her."

"How am I supposed to talk to her about anything if it's not even legal for me to do so?" Alex said. He sounded downtrodden. He felt downtrodden. Like a worn magazine, tossed away into a muddy puddle of icy water after he'd been read and folded and used.

Edward was looking at him. "You've been seeing her for nine weeks. What have you been talking about all this time?"

He shrugged, not even bothering to hide his shame. He was made of shame. It was a part of his very soul. "I don't… usually talk a whole lot. She does. I listen."

"You need to talk to her."

"But I can't-"

"When have you ever done what you're told?"

This brought him up short. "They would know if I told her."

Edward didn't bother to ask who he meant. "How would they know? You've seen her nine times. No one has burst in through the windows. No one's kicked down the doors. Laura Funke is a well established, well respected woman. If something happened to her, people would take notice."

"You don't know that. If I talked to her, it would ruin her life."

"And you don't know that. Ms. Funke is a therapist. It's her job to give you therapy, but she can't do that if you don't talk to her." Alex opened his mouth to speak, but Edward continued as if he hadn't noticed. "I don't think you're keeping things from her because you're afraid of MI6. You've never been afraid of MI6, despite everything they've done to you. I think you're keeping things from her because you're afraid of what she'd say."

"I- What?" He felt as if he'd been doused in freezing water. "That's ridiculous."

Edward sighed. "Alex, you've been keeping secrets for a long time. And they're big secrets. You've kept them inside you for all this time, and now that you have the chance to let things out, you're afraid to."

"Well why don't you just bloody counsel me if you know so much about it?" He snapped, and immediately felt guilty. He locked his jaw and looked back down. "I'm sorry. That was unfair of me."

"A little. Will you think about what I said?"

"...I will."

"And will you try- just try- to talk to her? Just forget about the- the laws? You deserve to be happy, Alex. Not just that, but you deserve to be content. Will you try?"

"...I will. I'll try."

Edward leaned back in his seat. "That's all I can ask for."

* * *

Next Wednesday found Alex sitting slouched on the couch in front of his therapist, eyes latched firmly on Harmony the fish. His face was impassive but for the slight downturn of the corners of his lips.

"Did you look over the lists you took home, Alex?" Ms. Funke asked, barely concealed hope shining in her voice.

Alex shrugged, and Ms. Funke swallowed a sigh.

"Well, I'd like for us to take the chance to-"

"My uncle used to leave me alone at home when he went on business trips."

He wasn't looking at Harmony anymore. He was looking directly at Ms. Funke, a determined set to his jaw.

Ms. Funke breathed in a shallow, quick breath, and swallowed. "Did he?"

"Yes. He sometimes left me alone for weeks. There was an incident when I was eight and I had to get a babysitter after that, but before, I was alone."

There was a change in the air, a shifting. Neither could quite put their finger on what it was, but both felt it, in the back of their minds.

Ms. Funke smiled slowly. "Let's talk about that."

* * *

It was three weeks before Alex finally spoke directly about his time with MI6. He'd been hinting at it ever since his talk with Edward, dropping clues, both subtle and not so subtle, but it was 21 days before he was able to screw up the courage and place down the words.

Ms. Funke was absolutely horrified by what he revealed, and it was the breaking of the dam. More came flooding past his lips, after his confession, and soon he was pouring out his heart, telling her about the bruises and the scars and the time he watched a man shoot himself in the head. He told her about Ian and nearly drowning and islands and vacations turned into pain and death and then, one crisp Wednesday, time slowed down and he told her about Jack.

A boulder was lifted off his chest. His cracked ribs healed themselves and his heart started to beat again in his chest. He still had night terrors and evenings spent sobbing into his pillow, and moments of rage so intense his mouth would fill with blood, but he was getting better.

He'd never thought that just talking would help him, but the more words that left him, the lighter he felt. Every Wednesday, he would sit on Laura Funke's couch, and every Wednesday, to his surprise, he would heal, just a little.


End file.
